Johansson’s cell phone rang. It was Larsson. Lindman could hear that he was worried that Larsson might be driving too fast.
“He’s already gone through Brunflo,” Johansson said. “He wants us to wait here for him. Meanwhile, I’m supposed to write up what you’ve said. We must start searching for this man.”
Lindman stood up.
“I’m going out. I need some air.”
Once outside, Lindman began searching his memory for something that had to do with what Berggren had said. He returned to the back of the house, avoiding any footprints there might be. He tried to picture the face she’d described. He knew he’d never seen the man before. Nevertheless, it was as if he recognized him. He hammered at his forehead in an attempt to stir his memory. It had something to do with Larsson.
Dinner at the hotel. They were sitting there eating. The waitress had been going back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room. There had been another person there that evening. A man on his own. Lindman hadn’t noticed his face. But there was something else about him. It eventually dawned on him what it was. The man hadn’t said a single word to the waitress, despite the fact that he had summoned her several times. That man had been in the dining room when first Lindman and then Larsson had arrived, and he was still there when they left.
He racked his brains. Larsson had scribbled things on the back of the bill, then crumpled it up and dropped it in the ashtray as they left. There was something about that piece of paper. He couldn’t remember what. And the man by himself at the nearby table; he hadn’t said a word. And somehow he answered the description Berggren had given.
He went back into the house. It was 1:20. Berggren was on the sofa, very pale.
“He’s making coffee,” she said.
Lindman went to the kitchen.
“I can’t think straight without coffee,” Johansson said. “Would you like some? To be frank, you look awful. I wonder if you shouldn’t see a doctor, no matter what you say.”
“I want to talk to Giuseppe first.”
“I’m sorry if I sounded a bit brusque earlier on. The police here in Härjedalen sometimes feel they are being patronized and walked on. That goes for Giuseppe too. Just so that you know.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t. But never mind.”
He handed Lindman a cup of coffee. Lindman was trying to remember what Larsson had scribbled on that piece of paper.
It wasn’t until about 5 A.M. that he had an opportunity to ask Larsson about what had happened that evening in the dining room. Larsson arrived at Berggren’s house at 1:50. Once he had taken stock of the facts, he went with Johansson and Lindman to the police station. An officer had been posted to keep watch over Berggren’s house. The description they had of the attacker was too imprecise to be sent out and trigger a nationwide alert. On the other hand, reinforcements would arrive from Östersund tomorrow morning. They would mount yet another house-to-house operation. Somebody must have seen something, was Larsson’s conviction. The man must have had a car. There can’t be all that many English-speaking southern Europeans in Sveg at this time of year. People occasionally came from Madrid or Milan to hunt elk, and the Italians are ardent mushroom pickers, of course. The only thing is, we’re not in the mushroom-picking or elkhunting seasons. Somebody must have seen him. Or a car. Or something.
At 5:30 Johansson left to cordon off Berggren’s garden. Larsson was tired and irritable. “He should have done that right away. How can we carry out correct police procedures if people don’t follow the routines?”
Larsson had his feet on the desk.
“Can you remember that dinner we had at the hotel?” Lindman said.
“Very well.”
“There was a man in the dining room as well. Do you remember him?”
“Vaguely. Next to the kitchen door, if I remember rightly.”
“To the left.”
Larsson looked at him, his eyes weary. “Why do you ask?”
“He said nothing. That could mean that he didn’t want to let us know that he was a foreigner.”
“Why the hell wouldn’t he want to do that?”
“Because we were police officers. We used the word ‘police’ again and again during dinner. The word is similar in most languages. What’s more, I think he looked a little like the description Berggren tried to give us.”
Larsson shook his head. “It’s too circumstantial, too farfetched.”
“Possibly. But even so. You sat there doodling on a piece of paper when you’d finished eating.”
“It was the bill. I asked about it the next day, but it had disappeared. The waitress said she hadn’t seen it.”
“That’s the point. Where did it go?”
Larsson stopped rocking back and forward in his chair.
“Are you saying that man took the bill after we’d left?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just thinking aloud. One question is: what did you write?”
Larsson tried to remember. “Names, I think. Yes, I’m sure. We were talking about the three of them: Molin, Andersson, and Berggren. We were trying to find a link.” Larsson sat up with a start. “I wrote down their names, and I joined them with arrows. They made a triangle. I think I drew a swastika beside Andersson’s name.”
“Nothing else?”
“Not that I remember.”
“I might be wrong, of course,” Lindman said, “but I think I saw a big question mark after the swastika.”
“You could be right.”
Larsson stood up and leaned against the wall. “I’m listening,” he said. “I’m starting to catch on to the way you’re thinking.”
“The man is in the hotel dining room. He hears that we are police officers. When we leave, he steals the bill you left behind. Now a few assumptions. If he takes the bill, he does so because he has an interest. And if he has an interest it can only be because he’s involved.”
Larsson raised a hand. “Involved? How?”
“That leads us on to the next assumption. If this is the man who came to see Berggren last night and tried to strangle me, we should ask ourselves at least one more important question.”
“Which is?”
“A question about the question he asked Berggren: ‘Who killed Andersson?’ ”
Larsson shook his head in annoyance. “You’ve lost me.”
“I’m suggesting that this question leads us to another question, the crucial one, the one he didn’t ask.”
The penny dropped. It was as if Larsson started breathing again.
“Who murdered Molin?”
“Exactly. Shall I go on?”
Larsson nodded.
“You could draw various conclusions. The most likely is that he didn’t ask the question about Molin because he already knew the answer. It means that, in all probability, he was the one who killed Molin.”
Larsson raised both arms. “Hang on, you’re going much too fast. We need some time to figure things out up here in Jämtland. So we’re looking for two murderers. We’ve already reached that conclusion. The question is: are we looking for two different motives?”
“Maybe.”
“It’s just that I find it difficult to take all this in. We’re in a place where crime of this kind is rare. Now we have two cases, one on top of the other, but not committed by the same man. You have to accept that all my experience rebels against such a conclusion.”
“There always has to be a first time. I think it’s time you started thinking new thoughts.”
“Let’s hear them!”
“Somebody makes his way here to the forest and kills Molin. It’s carefully planned. A few days later Andersson dies as well. He’s killed by somebody else. For some reason we don’t know, the man who killed Molin wants to know what happened. He’d been camping beside the lake, but he left after dragging Molin’s dead body to the edge of the forest. He comes back, because he needs to know what happened to Andersson. Why was he murdered? He picks up a scrap of paper left on a restaurant table by a police officer. What does he find there? Not two names, but three.”